by Casey Hays
Books by Casey Hays
The Cadence
The Arrow's Flight Series
Breeder
The Archer
Special Bonus Feature:
"La Faim" - A Cadence Companion Story
Included at the end of this book.
An Arrow's Flight Novel
Casey Hays
Whispering Pages, LLC
Copyright © 2014 by Casey Hays
Cover Art: Zach Hays
Editor: Anna Faulk
Published by Whispering Pages, LLC, an independently owned company.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data
The Archer: An Arrow's Flight Novel, bk 2 / by Casey Hays
384 p. 22.86 cm
ISBN 978-0-9905698-3-1
1. Young women - - Fiction. 2. Survivalism - - Fiction 3. Christian fiction
I. Hays, Casey, 1972-
PZ7.H3149176 ARC 2014
[FIC]
Author's Note about the Cover Art
I am pleased to announce the continuing work of my seventeen year old son, Zach Hays, as cover artist for this series. His talent never ceases to amaze me with each new creation.
For Faith
He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
2 I will say of the Lord, "He is my refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust."
3 Surely he will save you from the fowler's snare
and from the deadly pestilence.
4 He will cover you with his feathers,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
5 You will not fear the terror of night,
nor the arrow that flies by day,
6 nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
nor plague that destroys at midday.
7 A thousand may fall at your side,
ten thousand at your right hand,
but it will not come near you.
Psalm 91:1-7
Prologue
John sits half-hidden in shadows at the back of the cave, facing the wall. His drawing stick hangs limply from his fingertips. He doesn’t draw, and he is a statue in the heat of the day, quietly musing over his mundane existence perhaps. A mosaic. A true picture of a day in the life of the stock. My heart catches, and for a moment—on the outside looking in—I simply watch him.
I place the wooden key in the lock. Click!
At the sound, he stirs, and his face brightens. He chucks the stick and rises, searching for the jailer. When he sees none, he faces me, confused. I smile weakly.
“Hello.” I move into the cave, leaving the door wide. “I’ve come to bail you out,” I say, using one of Ian’s terms.
His eyes narrow suspiciously.
“I know it sounds absurd, but it’s true. Come, we must hurry.”
He bends, draws the word W-H-E-R-E in the dirt. And my heart quickens.
“To Eden,” I say tentatively, and I wait for his anticipated response.
In the rays of the sunset streaming through the opening, John’s eyes pierce me with a solid fear. He blinks, grabs hold of my upper arm, and shakes me once, fiercely, angrily, as if his intention is to shake this insane idea clear out of my head.
His mouth moves, absent of the words he longs to say.
“You need to write it, John.”
My heart suddenly beats quickly, pulsating in my throat. His eyes are hot with his fear. I free myself from his grip and pick up his stick.
“I know you’ve never wanted to talk about Eden, but I need you to. More than ever, I need you to today.”
He yanks the stick from me and instantly drops to his knees. And he’s drawing—erratically, painstakingly. Big squares here. Circles there. A knife, or . . . what is that? I can’t decipher a bit of it. I shake my head and fall to my knees beside him.
I study the frantically scribbled images. Is this Eden? He reaches out, lifts my chin roughly. Desperation outlines his features. He nods sharply at the drawing. I shake my head, and he pounds his fists against his thighs. His features erupt with his frustration, brows furrowing, his eyes squeezing into tight creases. It sears his expression—his inability to talk to me, to tell what secrets burn deep in his memories. He stumbles to his feet, giant tears sliding down his cheeks, and I feel my own welling up in the corners of my eyes.
I look at him, so strong and yet so vulnerable. Always, it has been so.
“I have to go,” I shrug where I sit, my hands falling helplessly into my lap. And then I add, “I—I want to.”
It’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to admit it, and I swallow a lump that settles in my throat.
John’s muscles tense, and, before I can blink, he rushes the gate. With a thunderous clank, he bangs it shut and slams the wooden lock in place. I stare at him, astonished. He points at me, points at himself, and gestures that we will stay here.
“You would rather stay?" My voice rises in agitation. I stand and face him. “I am giving you the chance to go as far away from here as you can. What is wrong with you? Don’t you want to be free?”
He squats, his hand moving furiously.
T-H-E O-U-T-S-I-D-E I-S N-O B-E-T-T-E-R
I sigh. I know nothing of this, but it can’t be worse.
S-T-A-Y, he writes again. He tugs on my hand, pulling me down and into his arms. A deep breath escapes his lungs and rushes over me. And with me pinned against his chest, he continues.
I-F Y-O-U S-U-R-V-I-V-E T-H-E J-O-U-R-N-E-Y E-D-E-N W-I-L-L N-O-T
L-E-T Y-O-U I-N
I stare at the words, slightly stunned before raising my head to look at him.
"But you were there. You told me so.”
He nods, slow and deliberate.
O-N-L-Y T-W-O M-O-N-T-H-S
He pauses for only a moment and adds:
O-N-E W-A-Y O-R T-H-E O-T-H-E-R T-H-E-Y W-I-L-L K-I-L-L Y-O-U
He drops his hands in defeat. I swallow the ever mounting lump that threatens.
“Who?” I ask, dreading his answer.
His eyes burn into me, silent beacons of warning.
T-H-E B-O-Y-S O-F E-D-E-N . . .
...for precious is their blood in His sight.
Psalm 72:14
Kate †
Chapter 1
A lone branch snaps, and the hectic rustle of birds’ wings echoes through the trees. The air is cool—misty—and in an instant, a single drop of rain splats dead center on a leaf inches from my nose. I shrink deeper into the overgrowth as the pitter-patter descends upon the earth and grows steadily heavier, until it beats at the vegetation bunched around me. The storm is not finished with us. It raises its ugly head out of the cloudy darkness to growl once more.
My grip tightens on the handle of my knife. Not my knife—Mona’s. The knife I don’t want; the knife Ian insists I carry despite my objections. I rest the flat of the curved blade against my thigh and pull the hood of the rain jacket up over my head.
The gods are angry, and the Archer has convened with them to mete out punishment.
The thought pinches at the edge of my mind, eating up the last small glimmer of my newfound hope. And the rain beats against the solid earth. The thunder rumbles, filling the night sky with a resounding boom.
There can be no other explanation.
Ian has been gone too long, and the ev
er invading shadows of the clouds have driven me from the clearing and into the trees. My heartbeat pounds loud and harsh in my ears, and I breathe deeply to still it.
He’s gone to look for the others.
I squint through the trees and the rain, scan the darkness with tired eyes. The day has been long and troubling, and my body is weary. I lower myself to the wet ground and shiver. The rain pummels the jacket, tapping out a cacophonic symphony for me alone.
I am so tired. I only want to sleep, to forget everything, to fade away into a place where I am not a killer.
A killer.
I shiver again, wrap my arms around my knees, and slowly, I count backwards in my head from one-hundred.
Ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven . . .
Death is heavy on my mind tonight. He sits beside me and whispers in my ear with a hissing forked tongue that blends expertly with the sound of the rain. Do you think to escape your guilt simply by running? Have you forgotten that I am everywhere, ever watching? I am coming for you, and I will never let you forget.
These threats slither over me, permeating my skin, and even in my mind, they are as real to me as the knife I clutch with whitened knuckles. They run full speed down my spine and nestle in the recesses of my soul, and they are warranted. I am to blame for Mona’s death. And I have resigned to live with this guilt until Death catches up with me and takes its revenge.
I know my heart, and this makes the guilt throb deeper. Because I wouldn’t erase what I’ve done. My actions, as terrible as they were, saved Ian’s life.
Beneath the hood, I wipe a hand across the back of my neck and force my uneven breathing to slow. I can’t stop shivering.
Seventy-six, seventy-five . . .
The rain falls heavier. I am soaked through, and I press up against a tree for shelter. It’s a useless effort, and my shivering becomes an uncontrollable tumbling wracking my body.
“Kate!”
I hear my name only faintly in the storm, but I pull the hood back with my icy fingers and listen.
“Kate!”
Scrambling to my feet, I wait for the voice again, and when I hear it, I crash through the overgrowth. Ian is in the clearing, hunched over to ward off the torrent that is now hammering the earth. His blond hair is darkened with rain and matted against his forehead. He makes a wide circle, spots me.
“Come on!” He yells over the noise, grappling for my hand when I reach him. “I found shelter!”
Shielding our faces from the biting downpour, we slosh through one puddle after another until we come to the shelter he indicated—a small cave in the side of a hill. The opening is no taller than three feet, so I drop to my knees and crawl through the tiny space until I reach the very back wall.
The cavern is narrow, but long enough. It isn’t waterproof, but it is far better protection than my thin, hooded rain garment. Or rather, Ian’s spare that swallows me up like a tent. Water dribbles off the entrance, and the intermittent gushes of wind cause it to spatter back into the cave, wetting us.
I’m trembling fiercely as Ian presses in beside me, filling up what is left of the small space with his bulk. He struggles to open his pack.
“Take off that jacket,” he says.
He unrolls a blanket, which is decently dry, and I fumble with my zipper. My fingers are stiff with cold, and after a moment, Ian reaches over and unfastens it for me. He peels the jacket off my shoulders and nuzzles the blanket around me, tugging me tightly into his chest.
“I couldn’t find them.” He rubs his hands up and down my arms. I lean into him, and the warmth of his body attacks my senses. He’s so warm. So warm despite the cold.
I’m too miserable to respond. I can think of nothing but my own pitiful condition for the moment. His embrace tightens, and I savor the heat of his chest against my cheek.
The rain drones on and on outside with a lulling repetition. And I sleep.
The storm ends sometime in the night, leaving a deafening quiet over the land. I ease open one eye in the welcome silence and spot the first rays of light visible through the cave entrance. The fresh wetness mingles with the musty scent of the rock walls. Water drips every few seconds from the ceiling to my left. I watch it for a moment. A tiny rivulet glides across a four inch space, hits an uneven rocky crag, hovers a moment, and plop!
I straighten my cramped body in the limited space, stretch out one leg and then the other. My back aches, but the blanket has kept me relatively warm. My fingertips graze the hilt of my weapon resting on the stone-cold floor. I pick it up, hold it above me. My face stares at me from the shining blade.
The knife was there—in the Pit—amidst all the blood. Ian found it when he “woke up” after the fall that should have ended his life. The women had overlooked it in their haste to remove Mona’s body from the Pit, which was fortunate for him. With it, he was able to fray the titanium embedded ropes just enough to wriggle himself free from their grip.
I would have left it where it lay afterward, but he didn’t. It was necessary to take it for protection. Ian said so, as he wiped the bloody blade on the edge of his shirt. Later, he washed it in the river until it gleamed when he handed it to me. Then, too, I saw my reflection in the curved blade. And like now, I didn’t recognize the girl staring back at me.
Metal was rare in my village. Those of us who did not wield weapons regularly never even had the privilege of touching something as valuable as this curved knife sharpened to a dangerous point. I clutch the hilt more tightly, and I feel the power that such a weapon invokes. And a jolt of excitement mingled with fear shakes me to the core.
In time, I will grow accustomed to the feel of it in my hand because I must. My life will never be the same, and I must accept the dangers and the responsibility that comes with my freedom.
I crawl to the opening of the cave and peer out. The sun smiles over the wet land, warm and inviting, and I close my eyes as its rays hit my face, heating up the skin. I almost raise a thank you to the Moirai, but I stop myself, holding my breath. Some habits are difficult to leave behind.
Ian kneels before a stack of kindling, working two sticks together. A thick trail of smoke rises in a wispy feather. He spots me, and his smile reaches his blue eyes.
“Hi.” He gestures toward the wood. “I was hoping to have a fire started before you woke.” He smiles dejectedly. “The wood is pretty wet still, but I’m making progress. Building a fire from scratch isn’t really my strength.” He feigns a shameful expression. “I must’ve put my matches in Justin’s pack.”
I clumsily climb to my feet, adjusting my pouch while Ian slides the sticks together in rapid repetition to no avail. I watch him. A wisp of his blond hair falls into his face, and he pauses to sweep it away with the back of his hand. I smile. It’s nice to see a bit of weakness in him again. A floundering. I’ve missed it.
“I can light a fire,” I say.
He surveys me. My knife gleams sharp in the sunlight. I sheath it through my belt, and bending, I rummage through the bundle of sticks. Somehow, even after all the rain, Ian’s found some fairly dry wood. I select a long branch ending in a sharp point and snap it in half. A piece of split bark, a handful of dry grass, a little rubbing of wood, and a tuft of smoke transforms into a small blaze.
“There,” I say with a dramatic raise of my brow. “Fire.”
His mouth shifts slightly in amusement. I slide my burning masterpiece carefully underneath his ready made stack, and the branches catch, crackling in the morning air.
“Nice!”
His voice carries a measure of awe, and I smile faintly while he adds a log to the flames. But any pride I feel in my skill is overshadowed by more pressing thoughts. I sit back and stretch my hands toward the warmth.
Puddles scatter the area around us, hard evidence of the sudden storm that stopped our progress and separated us from Justin and Diana for longer than I’d hoped.
“Do you expect them to be here soon?” I ask. My voice sounds small and uneasy, a
nd I search his face with the same uneasiness.
It’s because of Diana that I inquire. It would be wasteful to give up one ounce of worry over Justin. He is strong and fast. And smart. He can survive any obstacle that comes his way. In fact, it’s a defining factor in all of Ian’s friends.
But Diana is not so trained in travel, and I worry for her.
“I went up early this morning and marked a trail that leads to our location,” Ian says. “It shouldn’t be too much longer. I’m sure they stopped for shelter when the storm kicked up.”
I nod absently, feeling no better.
Diana insisted on leaving the Village, and she cared not how or with whom. Her ultimate goal was simply to leave with her babies by any means she could find. Justin, by sheer fortune, became her traveling partner. And it took only a few days for Diana to naturally gravitate toward him. He has a way about him: a nurturing character and a calm resolve. It captivates. Simply edging closer to him stills the nerves until fears dissipate like flakes of blown ash. I never would have believed this on first impression, but in the last few days, he’s proven it even to me.
Diana is still hesitant at times, uncertain of the strange, new males who are so different from our own men. But the small wall of protection she keeps around herself and Tabitha collapses with each passing hour as if made of sand. I see it more and more each time I look at her. I am certain Justin has much to do with this.
“I wish we hadn’t been separated,” I whisper.
My anguish is transparent, and Ian reaches for me, placing a warm hand on my forearm.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, squeezing his fingers gently. “I didn’t mean to get so far ahead, but they’ll find us.”
I can’t say I agree. I’ve never seen anyone move like Ian, and catching up may be quite a feat. We walked for several uneventful days before the storm struck—a fierce storm full of lightening that shot arrows at us from the sky. Ian wasted no time sweeping me up in his arms, desperate to escape its reaches. We flew across the ground at speeds that shouldn’t exist—me, cradled against him, the wind whipping all around, the rain slicing my face. I braved letting go of his neck long enough to untangle my hair, only to see a blur of scenery that sent terror racing through my veins. Ian expertly dodged every bolt that slammed into the ground, but it didn’t matter. All I could feel was the fearful thumping of my heart. Finally, we found adequate covering under the roof of a broken shack with a missing wall. By then, Justin and Diana were nowhere in sight.